


The Paths We Follow

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Background Relationships, Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 11:13:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7799524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know,” Porthos says after a long silence of riding their horses through the forests, on their way back to Paris.  “I get why you might have wanted to go with Agnes all those years ago.”  (Coda fic for 3x07)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Paths We Follow

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to tumblr for the prompt, "Porthos being all >_> WELL...? at Aramis over his possibly-wife-to-be and Aramis being like buT BABY. Porthos laughing that it gives her immunity to jealousy. Of course it does." 
> 
> The prompt fill ended up being a little more serious than the prompt suggests. But, you know, it's me. It's not that surprising it'd get more serious than intended lol. Anyway.

“You know,” Porthos says after a long silence of riding their horses through the forests, on their way back to Paris. “I get why you might have wanted to go with Agnes all those years ago.” 

Aramis glances over, curious. The sun shines through the trees, touching at the hair not covered by his hat. His expression is prompting, not pained – and Porthos is grateful for that, grateful that dredging up the memory doesn’t hurt the way it might have once. Aramis is looking at him, waiting for more – waiting to see if Porthos will keep speaking. Porthos has to look away after a moment. 

Porthos studies the treeline as their horses navigate the path, Athos and d’Artagnan ahead of them. He doesn’t clarify – knows that Aramis will understand what he can’t exactly put to words, the image of a woman, a mother, and her child. Wanting to help. Wanting to do everything you can—

Aramis smiles at him when it’s clear Porthos won’t say more. He asks, “Did she ask you to stay?”

“No. I offered,” Porthos confesses, studies the worn leather of the reins for his horse. “She turned me down.” 

He shrugs, hoping that will offset how much the rejection stings. Elodie might be right – perhaps France needs him more than she does, but it’s still difficult to ride away from her, from her baby. He clenches his hands around the reins. It isn’t his place. She likely has little need for another soldier in a world of soldiers, one she barely knows. 

He glances over at Aramis, expecting anger, rigid shoulders. Jealousy is not unheard of in these things – and in the past, Aramis has grown agitated at even smaller indications of Porthos leaving. Instead, he only finds soft eyes watching him, face gentle with sympathy and compassion. 

“I understand,” Aramis says.

“I thought you’d be angrier about it,” Porthos admits, after a moment of searching Aramis’ face. 

Aramis shrugs now, too, slowing his horse down so they’re riding properly side by side. He looks at Porthos, calm, when he says, “They’re both very beautiful – mother and daughter.” Now the smile does turn pained when he adds, “Of course I’d understand wanting to do everything you can to help a child.” 

Porthos blinks rapidly a few times and forces his breath out in a calm stream and spurs his horse on. Aramis follows him. 

Porthos swallows down and says, “I really thought you’d be jealous. Should have known the baby would give her immunity.”

Aramis chuckles. “That, yes,” he agrees. Then adds, “But there’s no point in my getting jealous, is there?” 

Porthos glances at him. 

“After all,” Aramis continues, his smile definitely sardonic now, “I no longer have the right to be jealous. Not after leaving you.” 

It’s still a sore point between them. Porthos knows this. Porthos also knows Aramis had his reasons for leaving, that the pain Porthos felt with their reunion was only as a sore reminder that Aramis might leave his life again. He hadn’t known then if Aramis would stay. And yet here he is. It’s a wound, but it’s healing. And Aramis offering it now isn’t admission of fault or salt to the wound – only fact. Porthos nods a little, thoughtful. The words register, deep in his gut, and it twists up inside of him. He bites the inside of his cheek and watches the way Aramis fiddles with his reins, with the cuffs of his sleeves – the only indication that he is nervous, that the words he’s offered are a larger admission than he’s willing to acknowledge. 

“Oh,” Porthos musters up – unable to think of anything else to say. It is painfully inadequate. 

They ride in silence for a long while. Aramis seems content to leave it at that, his smile tight at the edges. If he didn’t know Aramis as well as he does, it would be easy to assume that Aramis is nonchalant, that it did not take a lot to say as much – that the space between them is full of words they haven’t said. 

Porthos could very well let it go. Porthos could move on from this. There’s still a lot between them. There’s still a lot yet to overcome. Porthos hadn’t considered that, hadn’t considered Aramis’ blasé approach as a certain penance rather than lack of interest. It twists up again inside him, hurting. No, he knows he can’t leave it at that. 

“I don’t mind sometimes,” Porthos admits. “You getting jealous, I mean. Makes me feel like you… I don’t know. Want me.”

“I always want you,” Aramis says, matter-of-fact – his voice gentle. He looks at Porthos now. 

Porthos looks down at his reins, wishes quite desperately they weren’t on horseback so that he could pull Aramis to him and kiss him – find some sort of reassurance like this. Everything inside of him is sore – the breech still between him and Aramis. They’re building, rebuilding, they are, and it’s better, but there’s still this – still this idea that he can’t put to words, this reassurance he’s trying to offer. And Elodie, with every second farther and farther away from him. He’ll never see her again. Like so many women before her. 

He hopes she’ll be well. He hopes her daughter will be strong. He hopes they’ll both be safe and happy for the rest of their days. 

“Porthos,” Aramis says, gentle. Porthos looks up and sees Aramis reaching out his hand towards him. 

He smiles. Porthos smiles back, after a shaky moment, and reaches out to grasp his hand. It isn’t the greatest of embraces, as far as they’re concerned, and the horses drift away from each other and make it hard to grasp Aramis’ fingers for much longer – but it’s enough. It’s a point of connection. 

“I’m glad you liked them,” Porthos says at last and Aramis’ smile turns warmer. 

“I did,” Aramis answers. “Although you hardly need my approval.” 

Porthos squeezes his fingers and lets go once the horses are too far apart to make the hand-holding comfortable. 

“I like having it,” Porthos tells him. “Clearly I should only look at mothers from now on, just to keep you from getting antsy.” 

Aramis laughs. There’s still a hint of sorrow to the both of them – and Porthos knows that seeing children, new parents, can hardly have been easy for Aramis. He smiles at him – hopes it can be enough, will be sure to hold him tighter once they’re back in Paris. 

“… You’ll make a wonderful father someday, Porthos,” Aramis says, soft, and his voice hitches. 

It feels like a punch to the gut. Porthos doesn’t know what to say, how to answer. 

Aramis smiles at him, though, reassuring – must read Porthos’ expression. He reaches out his hand again and Porthos threads their fingers together. Makes his horse drift closer so he can pull Aramis’ hand up and kiss his knuckles, once, before d’Artagnan or Athos can turn around to shout at them to hurry up and stop lingering. He doesn’t look away from Aramis for a long moment, trusts his horse to guide them forward. 

“But,” Aramis says, quietly, not quite ashamed but hesitant, “I’m glad that I might have you by my side for a while longer, too.” 

Porthos breathes out, shakily, and finds that there’s very little left for them to say. They ride off in silence and Porthos doesn’t feel the least bit absurd whenever he’s close enough to Aramis to take his hand again. Aramis reaches for him, too, as they journey through the forest. They at least have these few moments for comfort. It’s little, it’s small, and there’s still the breech between them – but for now, it is enough. For now, they’re this much closer.


End file.
